


The Sandman

by patroclux



Series: Avenoir [3]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Gay Relationship, Drabble, Hurt, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:25:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7224133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patroclux/pseuds/patroclux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because after what he'd done; the crimes he had committed for his foolish, hopeless beliefs; after Cuba, after Washington... Charles wouldn't forgive him. </p><p>Only the dream of him did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sandman

“Do I have time for your bullshit? No.” Erik returned to his brooding, legs dangling off the platform of his fire escape. He instinctively avoided tight, enclosed spaces, and as a result had spent a majority of his time here. The ambient noise surrounding him verged on sensory overload, but the too-long silence of inside was torture.

Behind him, Charles let out that little sigh he did whenever he was exasperated, or things weren’t going exactly as planned. Hearing it pleased Erik to a degree simply because it meant that he was _here_ , and maybe Erik wouldn’t be so alone for as long as he remained.

“Can I sit down?” Charles asked. In response, Erik scooted over, making just enough room for the telepath.

“What do you want, Charles?”

“I couldn’t convince you to stay,” he began, and Erik sighed. But Charles, unperturbed, continued, “So I came to ask if you’re sure.”

Erik knew Charles well enough to know that even in his hopeless case, he was determined. He’d actually bothered to find Erik’s address and come here by himself, all because he wanted his friend back. And part of Erik wanted to go with Charles, wanted that adventure he’d always talked about back when it was just them.

He’d just dropped away, one day. Taken his leave upon realizing the terrible lengths he had gone for a purpose that was so, so wrong. He’d run off without ever facing the consequences of staying, and because of that he could never go back – even if Charles could find him with his telepathic abilities. Not that that had ever bothered Erik all that much.

“I…”

Erik was about to say that yes, of _course_ he was sure, why else would he waste so much of his time here otherwise, but then he faltered. Charles was looking at him, blue eyes softening the way they did solely for Erik. He’s always wondered why.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said instead. And it sounded dubious, yes, but Charles wasn’t the kind of person to obviously pass judgement on him. He just nodded his head and the space between them seemed to grow even smaller. “I think I’ve lost myself.”

Charles shook his head. “You haven’t lost yourself, Erik.” The way he said it; just a gentle reminder, the accent Erik had once grown so fond of now calming, was nearly enough to convince him that it was true. But the room begged to differ.

The bed was still immaculate save for a missing pillow, seeing as Erik hadn’t bothered with it. He had one set of extra clothes folded haphazardly over a chair, and had a bottle of whiskey that showed the truth of his embarrassing drinking habits at their finest. Erik wanted to forget, and here Charles was, reminding.

Erik still had his powers, of course, but there just wasn’t any point to utilizing them. He wasn’t the man he’d once had the potential to be.

“You have too much faith in me, Charles. I can’t live up to that.”

“Erik, I’ve always trusted you.” His last words were faded. An echo, a sigh to rival the breath of the wind in response, “ _Just come back to me_.”

And then Erik woke up in a cold sweat, entangled in blankets yet shivering in the cool night air. A dream, he realized. It’d been a dream.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. Charles wasn’t here. Tonight fared no differently than the last eight weeks: just him, alone, and the heaviness in his head that told him he’d almost had too much to drink. Erik sighed and got up, headed towards the bathroom, though all he wanted to do was return to the dream, where everything was alright.

Where Charles came looking for him, where he went back to Westchester, where he lived happily and, for once, not in lonesome silence.

But it was just that – a dream. Fantasy. It would never happen, because after what he’d done; the crimes he’d committed for his foolish, hopeless beliefs; after Cuba, after Washington… Charles wouldn’t forgive him. Only the dream of him did. Only in his dreams did Erik feel even halfway like his old self, before he – and he alone – had destroyed it all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this one's a bit too dramatic for my liking. i got a little excited whilst writing it, so i might change it later.


End file.
